


pictures of dead pets and relatives

by fraudoc



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, High Chaos (Dishonored), Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 04:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13803615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraudoc/pseuds/fraudoc
Summary: "Morgan isn't really lurking in the storm sewer is he? No, it's crazy. Just a dream."





	pictures of dead pets and relatives

It starts calmly enough every time.

Treavor and Havelock sit at the bar, the Admiral nursing a drink while he picks at what's on the plate in front of him (he never remembers what it is specifically; grey and amorphous, anything from jellied eels to rotting fruit dumped onto chipped porcelain). Focused so intently is he on not eating that he doesn't notice the red-haired servant girl- Cecelia, he remembers Wallace calling for her before- come in until she speaks.

"Excuse me, sirs," she starts, voice shaking as she bows her head to the two of them. "I don't mean to interrupt, but, Callista and I, we were in the cellar, and we heard something in the sewer. Again." She swallows, lifts her head. "Coughing, a-and footsteps."

"More weepers." Havelock, to Treavor's left, grumbles around the rim of his glass. "This street's been blocked off for  _months._ Hardly any way to get out or in anymore."

"The sewer gate," Pendleton says matter-of-factly, like it should be obvious. "Though that doesn't explain how they broke in in the first place." His plate gets pushed away, the food on it still untouched. Forcing himself to eat has been harder and harder lately, even with Wallace's attempts at scrounging up ingredients he likes. Hopefully he wouldn't notice another missed meal.

"Corvo must have left it unlocked from before. He probably still has the key." Another grumble. Havelock sets his drink down and reaches for the pistol strapped across his chest, pausing as he holds it. His hand loosens before he offers it barrel-first (tilted down, not turned towards his face or chest but aimed lazily at his right hip) to Treavor. "And since our royal protector is out, Lord Pendleton, why don't you do the honors of dealing with what's down there?"

Right, he'd nearly forgotten Corvo was away again. He'd hardly had a moment to rest since his return from the Golden Cat. He ignores the way his throat tightens as he grabs the gun- but why does he in the first place?

He should be calling for Wallace or snapping at Havelock to do it himself if he wants it taken care of so quickly. His place isn't in the sewers, ending the lives of those too far gone from the plague; it's in the relative safety and comfort of the pub's upper stories with a glass or ten by his side. Treavor shouldn't be the one getting his hands dirty.

But he doesn't say that. His body, against his own will, stands with the pistol in-hand and heads outside, around the side of the pub. Samuel's boat is gone, he notes. Corvo really is elsewhere in Dunwall, personally dealing with whoever Havelock and Martin had sent him out to confront. He doesn't remember who it is this time around- the targets have started to blend together in his head anyway. He wouldn't be surprised if they discussed who else to look into without him, the secretive bastards.

There's a ladder leading into the sewer now. It was added after the last time Corvo had to go down and deal with weepers, he remembers, to make carrying their bodies to Piero's workshop easier. He hadn't stuck around to see the aftermath then, and like hell is he going to now. With the gun tucked carefully into his belt, he descends into the sewers, limbs shaking slightly with the cold and effort of climbing down.

It's only when his shoes land on uneven concrete with a _click_ that he starts to hear it. Coughs and sick, shuddering moans echo through the tunnel of river water and garbage, sending a chill down Pendleton's spine. He's never seen a weeper- not up close, anyway. Trips across the Wrenhaven meant occasionally seeing the poor and infected, but always from a safe distance, where they were only silhouettes and the sound of stomachs being emptied. Other nobles had certainly gotten sick, and he'd been around to see it happen, but they were always quarantined within their own estates before anyone could see them with bleeding eyes and mouths. If he was lucky, maybe the wretched thing wouldn't even notice him, and he could end their misery and leave without looking them in the eye.

His footsteps are quiet as he moves deeper into the sewer, carefully stepping over every dark puddle. The water's low, and Treavor's thankful for that even as he continues to question why he's down here in the first place. It feels like he's not quite present, like someone else is forcing him along, making him round another corner with his finger pressing lightly on the trigger of Havelock's pistol. That someone else is what makes him keep walking as the sounds of hacking and vomiting continue, getting louder with the lack of distance, his own thoughts of _don't do this, you'll miss, you'll end up infected, idiot, and then what are you going to do?_  drowned out by the noise. His hand shakes even as his grip on the gun tightens, palms sweating.

Treavor pauses at the final turn before the last room, he supposes, of the sewers under the Hound Pits. A whale oil lamp from further in shines brightly, and amongst the shadows of dust and flies is a single dark silhouette. Someone- the weeper- sits on their hands and knees, leaning over the water. Pendleton's stomach rolls as he hears their retching from so close. This isn't murder, not like what Corvo does, he thinks. It's just... Putting someone out of their misery. Like putting an old hound to sleep. One less person suffering in this forsaken city. He swallows down the bile rising in his throat and steps into the light.

It's only when he spots the weeper does he think _"haven't I been this way before?"_

Whoever or whatever's been leading him along makes him walk closer, and suddenly his steps are loud and echoing, and the slide and click of the safety is louder than any shot he could fire. The weeper stops his choking to turn his head to him. Dark hair lays in a wet mat across his high forehead, plastered there by sweat and water. His waistcoat, once crisp and cream-colored, has turned an ugly brown where it isn't stained crimson. Blue eyes streaked with blood meet his own, delirious and unfocused, as the weeper struggles to his feet.

"Oh, Void," is all Treavor can gasp out.

Everything happens so suddenly after that. Weepers move faster than he thought they could, or maybe Morgan recognizes him and that's why he's upon his younger brother so quickly. Pink spittle and blood froth out of his mouth, pale hands grasping the collar of Treavor's coat. The younger Pendleton hears the distant clatter of his pistol falling to the ground while he claws at his brother's arms, torn between pulling him closer to sob into his shoulder and shove him away to grab his gun. Morgan makes the choice for him by releasing his coat and wrapping bony fingers around his thin throat. His mouth opens and he can see past reddened and rotting teeth and into the dark of his throat, unseen flies buzzing angrily in the emptiness, and Treavor--

 

wakes up.

His heart knocks against his rib cage in his scramble to sit up, blood rushing to his head with the speed of it. Sweat drenches his nightshirt and the sheets around him, sticking messily to his torso. He croaks out a " _Wallace_ " towards the dark of the hallway and dutiful, always prepared Wallace comes into his room not a moment later, hair mussed and shirt rumpled but eyes alert. Always ready for one of his master's fitful nights, with a calm word and shoulder to lean on.

"Milord," he begins, quiet, stopping himself before he says anything that could worsen his mood. Treavor knows he looks like quite the sight- frail, pathetic Lord Pendleton, teary-eyed and shivering in the middle of the night, curling against a servant's chest as he tries to even out his breathing. Arms curl around his back, with a broad, warm hand rubbing comfortingly at his shoulder. "It's alright now, it's okay." Wallace whispers into his hair. His eyes are focused on the floor instead of his lordship's face; it's a small sign of respect, not watching while he cries. "Everything's fine. These will stop once we're home, back at the manor."

Pendleton manor. How empty it would feel, back to normalcy but without his brothers around. Awful as they were, horrible men with no respect for any family besides each other... Treavor forces the finishing thought from his head as his shoulders shake, face buried in his manservant's clavicle. Wallace's arms squeeze and he gives a shuddering exhale.

It will be empty, yes, but it will be for the better. All of this, all of his sacrifices, the blood spilled for the conspiracy he's aligned himself with, will be worth it. The nightmares will come until then, but they are only nightmares, and Lord Pendleton has dealt with worse.

**Author's Note:**

> my first dishonored fic and it's not what i planned, lmao. oops!  
> song title it is from "it's never that easy, though, is it? (song for the other kurt)" by los campesinos! thank you for reading, kudos and comments appreciated.  
> please talk to me about dishonored at @bradfromHR on twitter or k1spiegel @ tumblr!


End file.
